


Incorporation

by Paia_Loves_Pie



Series: Christmas Cookies [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Nostalgia, crafting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 02:20:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21879832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paia_Loves_Pie/pseuds/Paia_Loves_Pie
Summary: Greg and Mycroft learn about being a family.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Christmas Cookies [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1231004
Comments: 48
Kudos: 108
Collections: Mystrade Holiday 2019





	Incorporation

Greg had to admit, the tree was beautiful. The staff had brought in a gorgeous soft Douglas fir tree into the parlour, and trimmed it in a spectacular array of tasteful gold and silver and red ornaments. It was cheerful, true. The garland was elegant and the lights were twinkly. The angel on top was lovely and peaceful, and the golden bells in the branches reflected the lights in the most wondrous way. It looked like a tree out of a storybook. It wouldn’t have been out of place in the palace, Greg imagined, although he’d never been to the palace, himself, to verify.

But. 

Greg didn’t want to be ungrateful. He liked the tree. He did. But. It just. It just wasn’t  _ their _ tree. All the ornaments were matching and unfailingly classical and classy. Every light placed just so. There were no quirky homemade bits, no dashes of unexpected color. No unevenly arranged placements. No wacky branches. 

He wasn’t going to say anything, but he just couldn’t help feeling...disappointed. As a boy, Greg’s family hadn’t been well off. Holidays were expensive and to help reduce costs (and keep small children busy) his mum had always sat them down the day after the tree was brought home, laid out some crafting supplies, and then the family each made an ornament for the tree.

The results were predictably rough and wobbly. Blobs of glue and too much glitter and letters all askew. It didn’t matter. They were made with love. As Greg and his siblings got older, the ornaments got tidier, prettier, and they always went on the tree with the others. His mum packed away the oldest ones as they began to get fragile with age, the new ones taking the place. They all exclaimed together over their memories of making each one as they were hung on the tree year after year. The tree was rambly and disorganized, but it was  _ them _ . It was family.

After a week, Greg couldn’t take it anymore. He begged off an afternoon from work, but he didn’t go home. Instead, he locked himself in his office with a few small bottles of cheap tempera paint and an assortment of glass bulbs and got to work. On the red one, he painted some snowmen, their brightly colored scarves waving in the wind. On the blue one, he covered it in snowflakes. On the green one, a rough attempt at Santa and some very blobby reindeer over the rooftops. On the silver one, a fireplace with stockings, one painted with a little “G”, and one with tiny “M”. On the gold one, he made a snowy tree-lined path, two figures holding hands. And if one had silver hair and the other a smart umbrella, well. It was his ornament and he could do as he liked. He filled them all with scenes of Christmas and carefully initialled and dated the bottoms so he’d remember. 

He snuck them home and inserted them into the tree. Round the back, pushed far into the branches where they wouldn’t show. But Greg would know they were there - a little bit of him, of  _ them _ in the tree. 

The next week, Greg came home from work and shucked his boots off. As he walked through the parlour, a flash of blue caught his eye. His ornament.

It had been moved to the front of the tree, joined closely by the rest, all arranged artistically in pride of place where they could be seen and admired. 

There was another addition as well. Some paper snowflakes, carefully folded and cut into some intricate designs. The same method you learn to do as a child, but these had clearly been completed with a steady hand.

Toward the bottom of the tree, two crudely glued and painted popsicle stick sleds with names written on in inexpert paint, letters bigger at first, then scrunched towards the end to make room. “SHErlock” and “MYCRoft”. 

Greg stood there, feeling unexpected tears gather in the corners of his eyes. 

Mycroft slipped up behind him, gathering him close and kissing him on the cheek.

“Next year,” he said, “we’ll get two trees. This one for the odious government clods who impose upon us from time to time, and another one in our study. Just for us.”

Greg just nodded, feeling as though Christmas had arrived at last. 


End file.
